And the stars stood still
by Afrokot
Summary: Stiles is an apostate, he lives with his father in Lothering. Chasind shaman teaches him magic, his best friend is (almost) a healer, Jackson is Arl's son, but still a jerk. Also, suspicious family's relocated to their village, Derek growls and barks more than he speaks... Oh, and the Blight's coming!
1. The spark

_"O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights."_

_-Transfigurations 12:1_

Stiles is eight when his mother dies. Dad says it's not his fault, but Stiles is little, not stupid, ok? He is not! He knows that fire started because of his spark. His mom is dead, and it's because of him.

He remembers mom saying not to be sad when she is gone, that she will return to be with the Maker again and will wait by his side for Stiles and Elric, but _his mother is dead, _and it's _because of him. _How can he be anything, but devastated? The weight of his guilt crashes his tiny shoulders. He imagines himself smashed into the ground, waits for it to finally break him. He deserves nothing else.

Elric finds Stiles in his mom's wardrobe, face buried in her tunic, which still carries her smell: a mixture of Wildflowers, and Elfroot, and, of course, her favourite – Andraste's grace. He is crying, clutching coarse material and wishing to bring his mom back with the sheer force of his will. Apparently, he has magic, maybe he can do it!

Sighing, dad crouches beside him and pulls Stiles to his chest. The embrace is fierce and for awhile they do not speak. The room is silent save for Stiles's occasional hiccupping; he's almost calmed down when his father starts speaking.

He tells Stiles things like _'it's not you fault' _(_'But it is!'_ the voice in his head contradicts insistently), and _'she loved you so much' _(_'And you killed her,' _continues the voice viciously), and _'it's ok to cry'_ (_'As if you have any right to it,' _scoffs the voice derisively), and _'of course, I love you! Don't you ever think otherwise!' _(_'Who would ever love a murderer?!' _sneers the voice), but when his dad says _'it was her fate', _it finally gets to him, and the voice in his head falls silent_._

And as if transported back in time, Stiles suddenly hears his mom's singing the Chant of Light (she sings him to sleep, new Verse every night, but never the full Canticle of Transfigurations). It is her favourite, the Canticle of Trials, her voice is soft and quiet, it soothes his worries, and Stiles can almost see the light her words bring.

And then she's telling him about her visions, that fate is not written in stone and usually can be changed, but there are landmarks that can't be prevented or avoided, that sometimes _what will be, will be_.

Stiles is eight, but he thinks he understands it now.


	2. The aftermath

_"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure."_

_-Trials 1:10_

Stiles waits for the Templars to come. It has been three days since the fire, surely it is time for him to go? He is not a fool — he knows that magic is dangerous, and now _he _is a danger to himself as much as to others. He waits for grim-faced, heavily armoured men who will drag him to the Tower, like they did with that elven girl last summer and with the Anders' boy the summer before that.

They screamed and cried, calling their parents, and the girl's dad just stood by doing nothing. Stiles wonders what will his father do when it is his turn. Will he try to stop the Templars like Mrs. Anders? He thinks his mom would have tried to hide him maybe, but… But.

Days pass and nobody comes.

It has been three days since, trapped in a barn, Andraste was burnt alive. Elric can't sleep. He should have been able to save her, should have been there! Every time he closes his eyes he sees it so vividly as if the images are seared on the inside of his eyelids. _Fire, fire everywhere; people are running with buckets, struggling to put out the flames; Stiles's crying and trying to help… And her screams._ He came too late. Elric can't sleep at all.

Days pass. He goes to work, automatically performs his duties, nods at condolences, hugs his son before bed… and doesn't let go till the morning light. After a week with no visit from the Chantry, it's become apparent nobody suspects Stiles has magical abilities. It makes Elric breathe a little easier.

Being an officer of the law, he's sworn to uphold it not break it at will, but it is his _son._ After losing Andraste, he isn't planning to part with Stiles just because of some ridiculous custom and inane fear. Mages need proper education, and it needs to be done in schools without jailers. Nobody deserves to be locked up in prison with life sentence just for being who they are, for the way they are born.

If in order to be with his son, to spare him an ugly fate of a convict who lives in a constant danger of beheading, Elric is to harbour an Apostate, then so be it. He was prepared to make a run for the woods on the second day after the fire.

A week passed in a haze. It is a sunny day when they go to the Chantry to attend the Morning Sermon. Despite the soothing familiarity of smouldering incense, it's becoming hard to endure constant pitying looks, covert glances, and whispers. And while Elric doesn't doubt the majority of villagers mean well, for some their grief is just a source of entertainment, one more reason to wag their tongues. Subjected to their scrutiny, Elric dearly wishes he had the foresight to left Stiles at home.

Revered Mother Demelza, an old, kind woman whose memory still holds stories of Elric's childhood, ends her speech with the Canticle of Trials. Slowly, she walks down the aisle.

It is only when Her Grace is asking wide-eyed Stiles how he liked the sermon, Elric finally becomes aware of her presence. He bows respectfully. "Your Grace."

"Elric, it is good to see you in the home of the Maker again."

Although it does not sound reproachful, guilt floods him. They hadn't been to the Chantry since the Funeral Rites. Swallowing, he looks away.

"None of that, my boy." Clasping his hand in hers, skin papery dry, the Revered Mother says, "There is no wrong way to grieve. Just remember that we are here to offer what solace we can," she pauses to catch Stiles's gaze, but he continues to studiously avoid it. "To _both_ of you. If you need any help, don't hesitate to ask."

Elric has to blink a few times — his vision went blurry. He bows once more. "Thank you, Your Grace. We are both very grateful."

Stiles, Elric notes uneasily, still hasn't uttered a single word outside of relative safety of their home; with a sudden jolt he understands the look in Stiles's eyes on the steps to the Chantry — _fear_.

"Will you accept my blessing?"

"We will be honoured, Your Grace."

"The path of righteousness is full of hardship, but the Maker smiles upon its travellers. Watch over their path, O Maker. Give them light in darkness."

In the safety of his mind Elric acknowledges his relief. He was a little afraid the Revered Mother would bless them with the name of his late wife.

On the way back home, Stiles's hand's clutching his almost painfully, he decides it is time to talk about the future.

As soon as the door closes behind his back, muting all sounds of a busy village to a dull murmur, never one to mince words, Elric asks, "Were you expecting to be left in the Chantry?"

Though Stiles remains silent, it is enough of a confirmation when he looks away. Elric berates himself for being so blind and not realising it sooner. Sighing, he scoops his son into his arms. Stiles instantly hugs him back, which can't be comfortable at all given that Elric is still wearing his armour. For a few long moments they just breathe. Hidden from the outside world, they find strength to live within each other.

Finally, Elric says, "I will not allow anyone to take you away. Not the Chantry, nor Templars. They will have to fight me first, and I am, as you know, the mightiest warrior of Ferelden!"

Stiles's voice is slightly muffled against his chest, "I don't want you to get hurt."

"They won't hurt me. If there is even a hint of a possibility, we will run. Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise."

When his son speaks again, it is in a tone so quiet, Elric has to strain his ears.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You wont." The response is immediate; there is not a shadow of a doubt, no room for hesitation.

"But…"

"There are no buts, Stiles," Elric tells him insistently. "You didn't hurt you mum. It was an accident, an unfortunate turn of circumstances." He sighs tiredly, "It was her fate. I wish you would stop blaming yourself for it was _not_ your fault." Maybe with time he will.

The necessity of hiding magical abilities goes without saying: from now on secrecy is a matter of survival. They can't risk confiding in anyone, but Stiles needs training, guidance along the rocky path of sorcery; and as his father it is Elric's duty to provide a solution. And the decision is made.

Firmly, he says, "Tomorrow I will go to Flemeth."


End file.
